Page 9

Chapter nine

Micah

I woke with my spine pressed against the cabin wall, trapped. Noah's body claimed the edge of the mattress, leaving me boxed in.

The narrow bed had seemed reasonable when I bought it—a place to collapse alone after days of pushing myself to exhaustion. Not a place to share. Not a place for another man's heat to seep through my clothes and into my skin.

His scent filled the shallow space between us—my shirt on his back, the salt of his sweat, and the unfamiliar intimacy of his breath. My hand curled against my chest as if holding something in.

The gap between my fingers and his exposed shoulder measured three inches. It was close enough that I could count the freckles scattered there, pale copper against winter-white skin.

Fucking rookie. Fucking reason I'm exiled. You shouldn't smell like someone I want to taste.

His shoulders were too still, and the muscles in his back were too rigid. That meant he was awake, pretending.

I had to move. I had to get out.

The mattress dipped and protested as I shifted my weight. I swung one leg carefully over his body, trying to hover rather than touch—an enforcer attempting grace.

It failed.

My hand brushed his hip, and my thigh pressed against his as I pivoted. I held my breath through the entire maneuver, lungs burning by the time I stood barefoot beside the bed.

Noah kept his eyes closed, but his jaw had tightened. We were both awake.

The power had kicked back on sometime during the night. The refrigerator hummed its electric hymn, a sound I'd stopped hearing until its absence made the cabin as quiet as a tomb. Now, its return marked a resumption of normality that felt false. Nothing was normal anymore.

I measured coffee grounds with surgical precision, focusing on the task to avoid thinking about the warm body still nestled in my sheets. The grinder's whine matched the noise in my head.

"Morning."

Noah's voice cut through the air. He stood and stretched his arms skyward. My shirt hung loose on his narrower frame. His hair stuck up on one side, eyes heavy-lidded but alert.

The sight of him punched something loose in my chest. I turned away, gripping the counter edge until my knuckles blanched white.

"Sleep okay?" It was my attempt at small talk. As if we were teammates sharing a hotel room on the road, not whatever the hell we were now.

"Better than I expected."

I poured coffee into two mugs without asking if he wanted any. Held one out. He stepped forward to take it, our fingers brushing in the exchange.

The contact blazed through my nerves like a shot of whiskey. His eyes caught mine and held. Neither of us looked away.

"Black okay?" I asked, though he was already drinking it.

"I can handle bitter things." The corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile.

A long moment of silence passed between us.

"Storm's gone," I said finally.

"Yeah." Noah nodded slightly. "I heard the furnace kick on." He took a careful sip from his mug, eyes never leaving mine over the rim. "Seems like everything's warming up."

The double meaning hung in the air between us.

"You planning to talk about it?" he asked.

"No." I set my mug down too hard. Coffee sloshed over the rim. "Nothing to talk about."

"Bullshit." Noah's voice was soft but sharp.

"You come all this way to chat, Langley? Thought you wanted truth, not conversation."

"Maybe they're the same thing." He moved closer, invading the careful bubble of space I worked hard to maintain. "Or maybe you're afraid of both."

My pulse hammered in my throat. "I'm not afraid of you."

"I know." His gaze dropped to my mouth for a fraction of a second. "That's not what I said."

He was close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. Close enough that I could grab him or push him away. I did neither. We stood inches apart, the air between us charged and dangerous.

"Honestly, what do you want?"

His eyes—steel-gray, unreadable—searched mine. "I'm still figuring that out."

He took another sip of coffee before setting his mug next to mine. His fingers grazed the back of my hand—probably intentionally.

He waited for the next move in whatever dangerous game we'd started with that first collision.

I gave him nothing, and he returned the favor.

I needed air. Space. I grabbed my coat and yanked the door open.

Outside, the world glittered. The previous day's storm had left everything coated in a thin layer of ice on top of the snow that caught the morning sun.

The trees stood frozen in suspended animation with their branches encased in crystal. The snow crunched beneath my boots, hard-packed and slick.

I breathed deep, filling my lungs with cold air that burned all the way down. Clarity. That's what I needed. Not the fog of whatever was happening inside.

The door opened behind me. Noah stepped out, wrapped in one of my spare jackets. It hung on his frame, sleeves extending past his fingertips. He looked smaller in it. Younger. The illusion disappeared as he approached.

"Figured you weren't trying to escape," he said, breath clouding before him. "Not without your truck keys."

"Would've come back for them." I turned away, scanning the treeline. "Eventually."

"Sure." He followed my gaze across the clearing. "Pretty out here when it's not trying to kill you."

I grunted in agreement, though nothing about this place had ever struck me as pretty. Necessary, maybe. Remote. Living here was a punishment that fit the crime.

The axe's weight was comfortable in my hand as I moved toward the chopping block. It was a familiar tool with a familiar purpose. Split the wood. Feed the fire. Survive another day.

I positioned the first log, raised the axe, and brought it down in one fluid motion. The wood surrendered with a satisfying crack, splitting clean down the center.

Noah watched—studying my movements. Learning.

"You ever split wood?" I asked, not looking at him as I set up another log.

"No. Never needed to."

"Good. Watch."

I demonstrated the stance—feet planted shoulder-width apart, body balanced. Showed him where to grip the handle, and how to let the weight of the axe head do the work: every motion needed to be deliberate and precise, a choreography of controlled violence.

"It's not about strength," I explained as the axe bit into another log. "It's about aim. Momentum. Finding the right spot and letting gravity finish what you start."

Noah nodded. His intense focus was unnerving.

Don't look at his mouth. Don't notice how he shifts his weight when he's interested. Don't think about his hands.

"Let me try." He stepped forward, palm outstretched.

I hesitated before handing over the axe.

Noah took my place at the block, mirroring my stance with uncanny precision. With his feet planted exactly as mine had been, his grip was tentative but determined. He raised the axe, muscles tensing beneath his—my—coat.

"Higher. Widen your grip. You'll get more control."

He adjusted, glancing back for confirmation. I nodded.

He swung. The axe connected with a solid thunk, but the log only split halfway. Noah frowned, disappointment flashing across his features.

"Not bad for a first try." I moved closer, unable to stop myself. "But you're fighting it too much. Trying to force it."

"Show me." He didn't yield the axe. He waited for me to approach.

I stepped behind him, and my hands found his, adjusting his grip on the handle. His shoulders tensed beneath my chest, but he didn't pull away.

"Let the weight do the work," I whispered into his ear. "Guide it, don't force it. Like this."

Together, we raised the axe. Together, we brought it down—the log split with a sharp crack, falling away in two clean halves.

Noah exhaled sharply. For a moment, neither of us moved. We froze in the frame of an almost-embrace, hands still overlapping on the worn wooden handle.

"I get it now. It's about knowing where to hit. And how hard."

The double meaning hung in the cold air. My throat went dry.

"Yeah." I stepped back, putting distance between us. "Something like that."

He turned to face me, axe still in hand. "Your turn to watch."

He positioned another log on the block, raised the axe with newfound assurance, and brought it down. Clean split. Perfect execution. He looked up, and he almost smiled.

"Quick learner."

"I pay attention." He swung again. It was another clean hit. "Especially to people who see me."

I watched him swing the axe again and again, each strike more confident than the last. Every motion was a mirror of mine, except for a grace I'd never possessed.

"You gonna keep watching?" he asked over his shoulder, sweat beading at his temples despite the cold. "Or tell me what I'm doing wrong?"

I took the axe from his hands. "Enough for now." I split one last log with a force that sent splinters flying, then planted the axe in the block. "Storm's coming back. I can feel it."

We'd been at it for nearly an hour. My arms burned with the familiar ache of exertion, sweat trickling down my spine despite the January chill. I'd shed my coat twenty minutes in, down to a thermal that clung to my torso like a second skin. Noah had followed suit, my borrowed jacket discarded on a nearby stump.

The pile of split wood grew steadily between us. Noah had found his rhythm. Each swing was fluid and purposeful, with no hesitation in his movements. He paused, wiping sweat from his brow with his forearm, and turned to look at me over his shoulder.

"You gonna keep watching or tell me what I'm doing wrong?" A half-smile played at the corner of his mouth.

"You're dropping your left shoulder," I said, voice steady despite the heat crawling up my neck. "Throws off your aim."

He straightened and squared his stance. "Like this?"

"Better, but your grip is still off."

"Show me. One more time."

His eyes dared me to step back and rebuild the walls between us. I couldn't.

"Fine." I positioned myself beside him, close enough that our shoulders nearly touched. "Watch."

I split a log clean down the middle with one powerful stroke, the crack of splitting wood sharp in the winter air. Set up another. Split it just as cleanly. A third. My movements were precise and controlled—the opposite of the chaos churning inside me.

Noah's eyes tracked every motion, hunger evident in his gaze.

"Your turn," I said, offering the axe. Our fingers brushed in the exchange. Neither of us flinched this time.

He mimicked my stance perfectly—feet planted, shoulders squared, grip sure. Swung. The log split with a satisfying crack, falling away in two even halves.

"Better?" He looked up, seeking confirmation.

I nodded, something like pride mingling with the unease in my chest. "Much."

He set up another log. Raised the axe. I caught his wrist before he could swing.

"Enough. You've got it."

"What if I want more practice?"

I released his wrist and stepped back while taking the axe from his unresisting hands.

"Save some for tomorrow." I split one final log with a force that sent splinters flying in all directions. It drove the blade deep into the chopping block, where it stood quivering. "We've done enough damage for one day."

His eyes darkened at that, pupils dilating until only a thin ring of gray remained. "Have we?"

"Yeah," I managed finally. "We have."

I turned away, unable to hold his gaze any longer. Unable to face what I might do if I kept looking.

"For now," I added quietly. I wasn't sure I wanted him to hear it since I wasn't sure I meant it.

When I glanced back, the slight smile on his face told me he'd heard. And understood.

The cabin welcomed us back with artificial warmth—the furnace pumping heated air through vents that creaked and rattled like old bones. Inside, the contrast made our overheated bodies feel even warmer. Steam rose from my skin as I peeled off my thermal.

Noah watched from the doorway, his gaze moving across my shoulders and down my spine. I didn't turn around. Didn't give him the satisfaction of seeing my reaction.

"You can shower first," I offered. "Should be enough hot water now that the power's back."

"Thanks." His boots thudded against the floor as he removed them. Then, his footsteps moved toward the window instead of the bathroom.

I turned to find him sliding the window open a few inches. Cold air rushed in, colliding with the overheated atmosphere of the room. The contrast created visible vapor plumes that rose from our bodies—like spirits escaping, seeking freedom.

"Too hot in here," he explained. His fingers lingered on the windowsill, tracing patterns in the condensation that had formed there.

I nodded, watching him from the corner of my eye as I pretended to busy myself with something—anything—else. Words formed in my throat and then died before reaching my tongue. I had no script for this. No playbook for what came next.

Noah pulled my shirt—his shirt now, by use if not by ownership—over his head in one fluid motion. He dropped it to the floor without ceremony. He stood smooth and bare-chested in the half-light of morning, all lean muscle and winter-pale skin.

"I should—" I gestured vaguely toward the bathroom, needing escape. I needed distance before I did something irrevocable.

"We should talk about it."

"About what?" I played dumb even though we both knew better.

"About why I'm really here." His expression was open and unguarded. "About why you let me stay. About last night."

My jaw clenched so hard I heard my teeth grind. "Nothing to talk about."

"Bullshit." He took a step forward. "You know why I tracked you down. And it wasn't for some half-assed apology."

"Then what was it for? Revenge? Closure? Some fucked-up therapy session?"

"Understanding." He moved closer still, closing the gap between us inch by deliberate inch. "I needed to know if what I saw was real."

My heart hammered against my ribs. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes, you do." Another step. Close enough now that I saw the flecks of darker gray in his irises. "You saw something in me. Something no one else has."

I didn't push him away. Instead, I froze in place, discarding the idea of flight.

"You taught me how to split wood today. Are you going to teach me what to do when it burns?"

My hand reached out of its own accord, reaching up to trace the faint scar that curved along his jaw—my handiwork, evidence of the collision that had brought us here. His skin was warm beneath my fingertips. Alive. He didn't flinch from my touch.

"I'm not your teacher, and this isn't a lesson anyone should learn."

"Too late for that."

We stood at the precipice of something neither of us fully understood but both recognized. It was something that could destroy us both.

Or save us.

I dropped my hand. Stepped back. Put distance between us before the gravity of want pulled me under completely.

"Go take your shower." I forced my voice to be calm. "We've got work to do after."

He studied me for a long moment, eyes searching mine for something I wasn't sure I could give. He nodded once and turned toward the bathroom.

"Micah." He paused at the threshold. "Wood doesn't have to burn to be useful. Sometimes, it only needs to be shaped into something new."

The door closed behind him. The sound of water hitting tile followed moments later.

I stood alone in the middle of the room, sweat cooling on my skin, heart still racing. The power was back, and the heat was on, but the storm hadn't passed. It had only just begun.